Page 13 of The Five Year Lie

Wouldn’t we all like to know. “He moved away.”

“Was he fired?”

“No,” I say curtly. I clear my throat and point at my computer monitor. “Do we delete everyone who quits?”

He chews his lip for a moment. “I doubt it. I mean, it makes sense to remove old employees from the company directory. But nobody is truly erased from the database, because we record everyone’s activity in the database, and we keep it forever.”

I know this already, because you can’t work here without hearing the warnings. Every keystroke is logged. Every line of code. Every email. Chime Co. stores a lot of private consumer data, and there are strict rules about how it’s handled. The only way to provethat we haven’t misplaced customer data is to keep very accurate logs of everyone who touches it.

Regardless, the company gets sued at least once a year.

And my father wondered why I was so disinterested in the family business.

“Check this out,” Zain says, tapping on his own keyboard.

I lean over to see his monitor, where he’s pulled up the entry for another ex-employee of the firm. Bryan Zarkey stares out at me from the screen, with his name, his log-in handle and his termination date.

“Remember this guy?” Zain asks. “He was the cybersecurity guru before me.”

“Sure. He quit around the same time as Drew.” I remember having to clean out his desk, which was full of granola bar wrappers.

“He’s still in the directory,” Zain points out.

“Okay, that’s weird.”

Zain shrugs. “You could ask the HR contractor about Drew. They probably have a whole file on him.”

“I guess.” But what are they going to say? Even if there was a reason why Drew has been deleted, it’s not like they’d share his file. That’s probably illegal. And what would I give as a reason for asking?

Zain’s glance darts in my direction before zapping away again. “How badly do you need to look him up? Is this because of Buzz?”

My stomach dives.Thisis why I never talk about Drew. Anyone who knew we were dating could guess who Buzz’s father was. And that’s between me and Buzz. And Drew. “That’s private,” I say stiffly.

“You’re right.” He winces. “That’s a shitty question. Sorry to pry.”

He isn’t the first to ask pointed questions, of course. But I never talk about Drew.

Someday I’ll tell Buzz the real story—that I loved his father with my whole heart, and he abandoned me. And then he died. But he’s too young to hear about it.

I never even told my family, even though Mom and Ray would have been cool about it. But what’s the point now? I spent my pregnancy frantically searching for Drew. I scoured Facebook and LinkedIn. I searched his name with every phrase I could think of—programmer, army, Portland. Blue eyes. I even called a few Andrew Millers whose photos weren’t available on the internet.

No match. And then one awful day I found Drew’s obituary, and I finally stopped searching, and started mourning.

All I’ve told Buzz is that his father died before he was born. My mother assumes that’s just a myth I’ve invented for my little boy. She doesn’t know that it has the benefit of being true.

And if Zain knows so much about me and Drew, did he decide to pull a prank on me?

After a moment’s hesitation, I decide to test him. “Look,” I whisper to Zain. “Let me show you something.” I pull out my phone, which offers more privacy than a company computer. And I googleDrew Miller obituary Fayetteville Daily News.

It comes up right away, and I hand the phone to Zain.

Reading the headline, he sucks in a breath. “Christ. Hedied? In a motorcycle accident?”

“Right,” I say in a level voice. I could recite the short obituary from memory by now.Army veteran Drew Miller, 30, was laid to rest yesterday at Cedarwood Cemetery after dying in a tragic motorcycle accident on Tuesday. Drew was raised in Maine and studied at the University of Massachusetts before achieving the rank of lieutenant in the US Army.After his discharge, he worked as a data engineer for a Fayetteville military contractor. He loved motorcycle riding and hiking. Left to cherish his memory are his fellow soldiers and his beloved dog, Coby.

“God, I’m sorry,” Zain says, aiming this apology somewhere near my cheekbone while handing back my phone.

He looks genuinely remorseful, too. Which is curious.